Antique husband not the treasure Edna hoped for
‘‘AND now, what’s next on Antiques Roadshow here at Lucre Castle, Nottingham? Edna Biffwright joins us. What have you brought in,
Edna?
“My husband Norm.”
“Ah, yes. By golly, he’s well worn, isn’t he? ‘Well Worn Norm?’ Ha!
Ha! How long have you had him?”
“Well, I came across him on the fishmongers’ annual outing in 1965. I was a gutter then. We went to Blackpool and he bought me some rock with a heart in the middle. Ever so romantic he was in them days. And, of course, he had a job then. Tripe maker’s apprentice. Good money, but messy, if you know what I mean. Had all his own hair, too. Later, we tried a toupee but not with much success, as you can see.”
“Yes, the join is obvious, isn’t it? Possibly Norm’s worth more without the toupee. Bald is in these days, you know?
“Well, Norm’s no Yul Brynner.
It’s pretty rugged under the hairpiece.”
“Ah, yes. I see what you mean. Bit like a World War 1 battlefield.’’
“Don’t mention war. Norm did National Service. He was the last of them and served in the Army Catering Corps. It’s all he ever talks about. You’d think he’d destroyed Russia the way he goes on. But he did kill a few of our own when he messed up the tripe recipe. Mind you, he was always happy to do tripe for us all at home but the kids would never touch it. But you know what kids are like.”
“Well, not really. I have no children of my own.”
“Really? Well, whose children have you got then?”
“I mean I have no family. I’m not married.”
“Good heavens! Goodlooking bloke like you with all them gold bits dangling. Mind you, not being married doesn’t stop them having kids these days. Just look at some of the floosies in our village. Half them don’t know who the father is.
Not like our day. Norm never saw more than my lower legs before the honeymoon. He made up for it during that week at Bognor, I can tell you. But these days I could prance around naked for all the notice he takes.”
“Well, the eyes look pretty well shot. Not too many teeth left. The moustache is not too bad. How’s his hearing?”
“He says he’s deaf as a post but he’s a cunning old devil. He can hear when he wants to. Mention Hook Norton Old Hooky best bitter and he perks up like nobody’s business. Just like a dog when you say ‘Walkies’. But mention doing a bit of work in the garden and it’s like talking to a brick wall.”
“Yes, often the way. In fact, Edna, Norm looks as though he’s well past anything, really. It quite surprising that you’ve hung on to him, but great to have him at the show, of course.”
“Well, I’m a bit sentimental, I suppose. He’s a family heirloom, really, and the kids might get upset if I got rid of him. Of course, they were keen to know if you could put some sort of value on him.”
“Not easy, Edna. Not like a nice piece of Chippendale, is he? Luckily, there’s no sign of amateur repair work. He walks OK.”
“Of course, the hip op was done down at the hospital. Couldn’t really leave that to some back street
operator. Never did any other repairs on him. The ears stick out a bit but he wouldn’t be the same if we’d had work done on them.”
“Quite right. Still, as the old saying goes, he’s worth just what someone is prepared to pay for him.”
“Well, the life insurance people are happy to take four quid a month for him but that’s not much good to me, is it? Of course, when he goes there’ll be a nice little nest egg as the kids keep reminding me. About fifty thousand, I think. I’m always nagging him to get out more. Take a walk by the railway line or near the roundabout where the buses swing round, but not our Norm. Just sticks to the footpath down to the Green Man and when we come to town there are hundreds of buses just waiting for blokes like him, but will he throw himself in front of one? Not Norm. Self, self, self, some people.”
“Well, Edna, we’ll have to move on to something else, but thanks for bringing Norm in. I think you’re stuck with him.”
“Yes, that what I was afraid of. Be nice to have him in better condition, though.”
“Look, Edna, the best I can do is mention you a friend of mine who’s on another BBC programme. It’s called The Repair Shop.” They can fix anything. OK?”
“Bless you, sir, bless you.”
Jim Sullivan is a Patearoa writer.